


As You Wish

by sinkburrito



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A lil bit of pining, Fluff, HORRIBLY sappy and self indulgent, M/M, The Princess Bride - Freeform, you know how crowley is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 13:45:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinkburrito/pseuds/sinkburrito
Summary: In which Crowley discovers the Princess Bride and finds the perfect outlet for the pesky three words that he can’t quite say.





	As You Wish

It was something he’d never intended to watch. Crowley had been sitting in his (truthfully uncomfortable) chair and idly flipping through the channels on TV. It wasn’t something he did often, because human television was rarely entertaining and he usually had some type of work to do. However, on this particular day, there was no work to do nor anything else. It had been a week since the Unpocalypse and, except for the small hiccup of the holy water bath and the hellfire, head office had made no attempts to contact either him or Aziraphale. 

Said angel was busy today; you know, assumably. It was perfectly reasonable for Crowley to assume that Aziraphale was busy today, as he had spent the last week in Crowley’s presence and he must have  _ something _ to do. They had unspokenly clung to each other’s presence in that one week, a new arrangement that hovered around the not-quite-speakable words: “I can’t stand to lose you.” 

And on this morning, Crowley lounged in his ornate throne and searched for something to watch and very much did not think about Aziraphale and how the angel probably wouldn’t notice that he hadn’t come calling at the bookstore like he had every morning since… well, since. Well, he might. But Crowley had decided to give him some space, in case he needed it. To go back to how it used to be.

It was just starting when he found it. He initially hadn’t even been paying attention when it started, instead fiddling with something on his desk. He watched disinterestedly as the title materialized:  _ The Princess Bride.  _ He didn’t even really start watching until it had started to show Buttercup. Something in Buttercup’s haughty but pleased demeanor in ordering Westley around made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat as he tried to push Aziraphale from his mind. Horrifically, he even found himself crying a bit as their story unfolded. 

The phone did not ring nor did there come a knock on the door as Crowley watched  _ The Princess Bride _ with minimal sniffling. However, the next day he did indeed visit the book shop out of an irrepressible desire to see Aziraphale once more (this had always been present, only magnified once the -- uh, that. Listen, it’s a hard business, coming up with new takes on “Not-Apocalyse.”)

  
  
  


\---

It had been quite by accident. It just came out, really. 

“Crowley, dear, I just can’t reach this book,” Aziraphale said, reaching up on his toes for a Keats collection. He didn’t even need to say anything, just turn hopeful eyes on the demon. 

  
Crowley rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. “As you wish,” tumbled out of his mouth, a tad less snarky than he’d intended. A bit, heartfelt, maybe. He was immensely grateful for the sunglasses, as they hid how his eyes widened in shock. He felt a wave of embarrassment as he handed the book to Aziraphale and couldn’t avoid a sharp intake of breath when their fingers brushed. 

“O-Oh,” Aziraphale stammered, “Is there anything wrong?” 

“No,” Crowley snapped, and then felt bad for doing so at Aziraphale’s obvious concern. “Nothing’s wrong, angel,” he sighed. He stepped out of Aziraphale’s personal space and grinned sharply. “What do you say to lunch? That bakery you like down the street with the crepes?” 

“Oh, that sounds lovely…”   
  


  
  
  
  


The second time it happens is on the street. They’d just gone to see the orchestra play some of the Romantics (“Oh, look! Mendelssohn, Crowley!“ Aziraphale had been a big fan of Mendelssohn. He had loved to watch him conduct.) and it was almost dark out. The lamposts were lit as the sun sank behind the horizon, it too, tired of the day and taking its rest. Crowley wanted to link his arm with Aziraphale’s, as he saw so many couples on the street doing. It was horribly embarrassing; it was such a simple desire, such an innocent and lovely one. Certainly not something for a demon. Ithad been six thousand years and he still wanted something of Aziraphale that he just couldn’t give. Specifically, to Crowley. A demon. On top of that, it was a ridiculously simple and childish thing to want. He did, though. Want it.

Crowley was still not thinking of looping his arm through Aziraphale’s when the soft sobs broke through his consciousness and he noticed Aziraphale had stopped walking. Down the alleyway, a young girl was crying into her hands. 

Aziraphale was beside her faster than Crowley could blink. (If he did that. He actually preferred to lick his eyes like snakes do, except that most people seemed pretty put-off when he did so.) He stood on the threshold for the moment, watching as the angel crouched down next to the girl and talked to her, softly. His insides twisted in a  _ good _ sort of way, something undoubtedly  _ bad _ for someone like him. He felt a few feet away from doing something stupid, like slipping his arm into Aziraphale’s. 

“Crowley,” the angel said, familiarly. Twistingly. “This young lady needs a ride home. Would you go get the car?” 

“As you wish,” Crowley murmured, and this time it didn’t feel like it slipped out. This time, it felt like a confession. He willed Aziraphale to understand, but was relieved when he didn’t. They walked out of the alley to find the Bentley parked on the curb, despite the fact that they had planned to walk home. Crowley didn’t ask about the girl, but he brought Aziraphale back to the book store. The Bentley did not approve of silence, so Freddie Mercury began to croon “Love of My Life.” 

Crowley stole glances at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. The angel seemed discomfited, nervously playing with his hands. Crowley winced as the lyrics of the song were made clear.    
  
“Would you like me to change the music?” Crowley asked, nonchalant. He did try. 

  
“Yes, please,” Aziraphale said emphatically, relaxing once the music switched to Liszt. 

“As you wish,” Crowley confessed as “Liebestraume” started on an E flat. 

He dropped Aziraphale off at the bookshop and tried not to linger in the doorway. He didn’t succeed.

  
  
  
  


Aziraphale was starting to become curious about the phrase, admittedly. Twice, a coincidence. Three times, perhaps not. He wondered what it meant and why Crowley seemed to say it so sincerely that Aziraphale felt like he had stepped off of some great precipice without quite knowing it. It happened once more, and Aziraphale fixated on it, like a cat and a laser pointer.

“Money is no object,” the man promised, once more. “You’re a shopkeeper; you’ve  _ got  _ to sell something!” His hands firmly held a book Aziraphale was intent on keeping. He wasn’t even sure if he had read it, but there was no way he was selling it  _ now. _ Not now that this man presumed to tell him what to do with his books! 

“I haven’t  _ got _ to do anything!” he protested. The man opened his mouth, about to spew and steam in outrage, but a hand grasped his shoulder first.

“I believe he told you that the book wasn’t for sale,” Crowley said firmly as his grip tightened and the man’s face spasmed in pain. Crowley released him with a shove and lowered his sunglasses when the man turned around, full of fight. The result was an extremely quick vacation of the premises. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale effused, feeling an intense relief. 

“As you wish,” Crowley said, importantly. Aziraphale just couldn’t figure out why it was important. He seemed to pause, wait for something, then give up. “I think I’ll go out and forment some discord today,” he said suddenly, “Stretch my legs.” 

Aziraphale watched him leave the shop, feeling like he had just made a wrong step. He clutched the book to his chest and flipped the sign to ‘closed.’ In the back room, he finally took a look at the book. It wasn’t old at all; maybe a few decades at most. It didn’t look at all like anything he would normally keep, let alone fight a customer for. The title sprawled across a drawing of a lady in a flowing dress on a horse read “The Princess Bride.” 

Struck by a sudden curiosity, he sat down on the sofa and began to read. 

  
  
  
  


“Crowley, do you read?” Aziraphale asked at lunch the next day. The book was burning a hole in his coat pocket and his hands sweated profusely. He rubbed them discreetly on his pants. 

  
Crowley wrinkled his nose. “No,” he scoffed, “I don’t read.” He leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed. “You know I don’t read.” 

“At all?” Aziraphale pressed, “You’ve never read a single book?”

Crowley thought for a moment. “I s’pose I’ve read a comic once.”   
  
“Oh,” Aziraphale said. 

“It was about magic and stuff. It was alright. The author had a funny name.” 

“What was it?”   
  
“Neil Gayman or something.”

Aziraphale hummed noncommittally. 

“So… nothing else?” he asked. 

“No, nothing else.” Crowley seemed annoyed. “What brought this on?”

“Oh, you know,” Aziraphale explained feebly, “I was just… curious, now that we have… time for things. Since… you know. No one looking over our shoulders.”

Something in Crowley softened, like a stiff cloth being soaked in water. “If you want me to read, angel, I will.”

“As I wish?” Aziraphale asked boldly. 

Crowley’s face flashed through a series of emotions, so lightning quick that Aziraphale could not make heads nor tails of them. 

“Yes,” he said, “As you wish.”

Aziraphale knew he couldn’t possibly be referring to what he thought he was referring to, because Crowley did not read and so Crowley could not possibly be imitating Westley in the Princess Bride and was probably just making fun of Aziraphale. But why, oh why, did he have to go and sound so sincere?

  
  
  


The funny thing was, he had been saying it the whole time. Anything Aziraphale wished for, Crowley would do. Hamlet. Paris, 1793. The books at the church. It was easier that way. That way he didn’t ever have to say it. However, Crowley found that the more he said it, the easier it became. It felt good, like getting something off his chest. Sometimes, he said it in contexts that didn’t even make sense. For instance, yesterday morning:

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale hummed as Crowley entered the bookshop. 

“As you wish,” Crowley had answered. This was met with a suspicious gaze, but Crowley had no answer for Aziraphale that did not entail  _ Hello, I’m desperately in love with you and the only way I can tell you is to reference a movie which I know you haven’t seen because you don’t like movies and telling you like this makes me feel better even though you’ll never know what I really mean and what I really mean is that I love you, I love you, I love-- _

And so Crowley said nothing at all. 

  
  


By far, his worst offense had been last night at the Ritz. They had been having dinner, as usual, as had  _ been _ usual for however many milennia. But Aziraphale had seemed lost that night and unusually soft-spoken; he had let Crowley talk instead, who, unaccustomed to the taciturn angel, began to ramble about a dog he had seen in the street the other day. 

Aziraphale poked at his spaghetti. It was very unlike him to eat with anything less than extreme gusto, especially here. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, uncertain. 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Are you… are you alright?”   
  
“Of course. Now what were you saying about the cat you saw?” Aziraphale answered brightly, like a fluorescent light at the supermarket; jarring and fake.

“It was a dog,” Crowley corrected.

“Yes, the dog. What did I say?”   
  


“You said-- nevermind. Oh, there’s-- you’ve got sauce. On your face.” Crowley said, pointing vaguely in Aziraphale’s direction. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and tried to wipe it off. He missed. “Did I get it?”   
  


“No, it’s--”   
  
“Oh, could you--”   
  


They both stopped. 

“I mean, could you… get it for me?” Aziraphale asked lightly; light in the way you would lay a playing card on the top of a house of cards.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and leaned over the table with the napkin. Aziraphale’s eyes were bright, too, but bright in the way the sun was when you looked at it on a particularly sunny day. Real and A Lot. Crowley Did Not Look at them. He carefully wiped the sauce from Aziraphale’s face, taking care not to let his fingers touch the skin. He felt Aziraphale’s breath hitch under his hand and his eyes darted up; big mistake. He felt transfixed, frozen. He didn’t know what to do except he did, so he said, “As you wish.” It was so softly that human ears wouldn’t have heard it and so gently that Crowley knew it was over as soon as he said it. This couldn’t possibly be interpreted as anything other than it was.

Crowley cleared his throat, dropped his eyes, and sat back in his seat. At least now he knew.

“Actually, I’m not quite hungry anymore,” Aziraphale said at a normal volume, startling Crowley. This was also startling because Aziraphale wasn’t ever hungry but could always eat. “Would you like to go back home?”   
  
_ Home _ . Crowley had started to think of the book store as home, and here Aziraphale was, affirming that. 

Aziraphale rose and held out his hand to Crowley. When he took it, a fond smile ghosted over Aziraphale’s lips. “Come along, dear.”

  
  
  


On the ride back, they listened to Tchaikovsky’s Overture for Romeo and Juliet.

  
  


“There was this movie,” Crowley said over the swells of the orchestra, “I think you’d like it.”   
  
“A movie?” Aziraphale asked, “You know I’m not particularly fond of those.” 

“It was good, though. Tacky. Your type.” Crowley swallowed, “Romantic.” 

Aziraphale didn’t answer. Crowley drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. 

“It was called, uh, “The Princess Bride.” 

Aziraphale’s fingers tightened where he was playing with his waistcoat. “Oh?” he said after a few moments.

“Yeah.”

The car barely missed a pedestrian and sailed onto the curb near the bookshop. 

“I must confess,” Aziraphale said conversationally while struggling to unlock the door. His hands were unusually shaky tonight. “I have read a similar book. Of the same title.”

“Angel, I--”

“Buttercup was raised on a small farm, in the country of Florin,” Aziraphale quoted. Crowley stopped. “Her favorite pastimes were riding her horse and tormenting the farm boy that worked there. His name was Westley, but she never called him that.”

Crowley made a choked sound.

“Nothing gave Buttercup as much pleasure as ordering Westley around. ‘Farm boy,’ she would say, ‘Polish my horse’s saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.’”

“Angel,” Crowley said, sounding trapped; probably because he knew what came next.

“‘As you wish’ was all he ever said to her.”

“You knew,” Crowley stated. 

Aziraphale ignored him and continued. He’d memorized his passage as soon as the suspicion hit his mind. “That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying ‘As you wish,’ what he meant was--”

“I love you,” Crowley answered. It was not strained, nor pulled, nor anything that would imply that he did not want to or could not say it. It was simply the statement of something he had known and had said before and would continue to say.

Aziraphale ducked his head and bit down a smile. “And even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back.” 

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, full of wonder. “Do you?”   
  
Aziraphale turned to face him, affronted. “How could you ask?” he said, then caught himself with an armful of enthusiastic demon. He laughed freely, without abandon as Crowley’s weight slotted itself in between his arms like it belonged there, which it did. He continued to laugh in wonderment as Crowley peppered kisses across his face. 

In that moment, (and afterwards) Crowley and Aziraphale both separately came to the conclusion that this must be their happy ending. They would be right. 

  
  


Epilogue

“You should still read the book,” Aziraphale commented off-handedly. His hopeful expression contradicted his casual tone. 

Crowley shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I was never one for reading.”

“You could still give it a try, though,” Aziraphale pressed. “For me?”   
  


Crowley mumbled something unintelligible.    
  
“What was that?”   
  
“I can’t read,” Crowley hissed. His face was a blotchy red to match his hair. “It’s-- It’s the eyes. The words all-- they all trip over themselves and it doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and a lot of things suddenly made more sense. “Well, I-- I could read to you, dear.”

Crowley nodded jerkily and they settled onto the couch. Aziraphale began to read quietly and Crowley tucked his head against the angel’s shoulder. 

**Author's Note:**

> listen i have every right to be as sappy as i want. these two have been pining for millennia and deserve to be stupid and sweet.... anyways stan the princess bride!


End file.
